


i've never been in love (but i wanna be, i wanna be)

by ladypeaceful



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, First Kiss, Flirting, House Party, Instant Connection, M/M, Reckless Behavior, Soulmates, and general grandeur, warnings for lots of space imagery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:53:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22199668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladypeaceful/pseuds/ladypeaceful
Summary: He forgets how to draw air into his lungs for a few seconds, rendered breathless by how strikingly gorgeous this boy is. His hair is a stunning shade of bleached blond that reflects the neon lighting around them in a way that electrifies Robbe, roots him to the ground where he stands. His jewel-green eyes are just as mesmerizing; they seem to pierce right through every single one of Robbe’s defenses and see directly into his soul, instantly uncovering all of his secrets, even the ones he doesn’t know himself.
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Comments: 3
Kudos: 118





	i've never been in love (but i wanna be, i wanna be)

**Author's Note:**

> this was born from a late-night/early-morning discussion i had with @musicofsilentkisses on tumblr about her ideas of robbe and sander having a different first meeting... so..... this is what might have happened if sander had met robbe at that very first party and been the one to whisk him away on a late-night adventure :) title is from _hurry up!_ by superfruit because i knew what i wanted to name this fic before i had even written a single word of it lmaooo

Robbe’s head is swimming with the mixture of alcohol and weed coursing through his body, the harsh burn of it in the back of his throat at once too much and not quite enough. He’s squished in next to Moyo at one end of the bathtub, legs dangling over the side, body loose and pliant, mind mostly blank.

“You wouldn’t let her give you a blowjob?” Moyo asks. He’s talking about some girl in their year, Julia, whose face Robbe can barely recall at the moment.

“Uh… no.”

Jens, on the other side of Moyo, is shaking his head as well, but Moyo keeps going. “Really, dude? What, are you an ass guy, then? Eva? Or no, that chick from 6B.”

Robbe shrugs. “Nah, they don’t really do it for me.”

“Who does, then? What’s your type?” Moyo seems insistent on getting specific answers from Robbe, but the truth of it is that he doesn’t have any. He doesn’t really think about girls that way; at least, he doesn’t think about them the way that he finds himself thinking about Jens more often than not these days. Lanky, pretty-faced Jens who is  _ so  _ annoyingly attractive for the amount of time Robbe has to spend around him, pretending to be interested in the same girls. Wanting Jens to pay that kind of attention to him instead.

But he can’t tell anyone any of that, of course, so he merely shrugs again and lies through his teeth. “I don’t know, I don’t really have a type.”

“Bullshit,” Moyo tuts, “everyone has a type. Come on, spill.”

Robbe drains his bottle in lieu of replying, then hoists himself to his feet with some difficulty. “I’m going downstairs to get another. Anyone want anything?”

“I’ll come with you.” Jens volunteers. Gratefully, Robbe offers a hand to help him out of the tub.

The first floor being as crowded as it is, it’s useful to have Jens around to act as a shield of sorts. Robbe, while not necessarily lacking in strength what he does in height, has gotten accustomed to being buffeted around by people like a feather in the wind, but six-foot-tall Jens muscles his way through the throng of people in the main hall with next to no resistance, so they make it to the kitchen in record time.

Robbe wanders around, taking stock of what’s still available in the common area that could be mixed in a drink. There isn’t much to choose from. He tosses his empty beer bottle, along with a couple of empty vodka bottles from the counter, into a battered cardboard box with  _ RECYCLING _ scrawled across the side in messy lettering, then turns to ask Jens what he wants. But his best friend is gone, suddenly across the walkway, talking to a girl Robbe vaguely recognizes from his chemistry class.

Typical.

Huffing a little through his nose, he swivels back around to grab a plastic cup from the stack in front of him, considering his options with less enthusiasm than before.

“Fancy a gin and tonic?” It’s a voice Robbe doesn’t recognize, but the guy who’s just come up behind him is definitely speaking to him.

He forgets how to draw air into his lungs for a few seconds, rendered breathless by how strikingly gorgeous this boy is. His hair is a stunning shade of bleached blond that reflects the neon lighting around them in a way that electrifies Robbe, roots him to the ground where he stands. His jewel-green eyes are just as mesmerizing; they seem to pierce right through every single one of Robbe’s defenses and see directly into his soul, instantly uncovering all of his secrets, even the ones he doesn’t know himself.

“Um…” He wills himself to act normal. “There’s no gin left, I think?”

The blond boy clicks his tongue in disappointment. “Damn.”

Robbe keeps talking, trying not to trip over his own tongue. “I’m more of a whiskey man, anyway.”

“Are you now?” Something flashes across the other boy’s gaze, curious and fleeting. Robbe is positively, dangerously enchanted. “Well, in that case…”

He turns to head out of the kitchen, beckoning for Robbe to follow.

“What?”

“Come on.” The boy jerks his beautiful blond head toward the doorway. Then, seeming to notice Robbe’s hesitation, he proffers a hand. “I’m Sander, by the way.”

“Robbe.” He shakes Sander’s hand, feeling utterly bemused.

It appears that he has no choice but to let himself be led back out to the walkway, away from the drinks, from Jens, from everything familiar, all for the hope of satisfying his intrigue with this mysterious new boy.

Up the stairs they go, Sander taking them two at a time. He shoulders past a couple making out against the closed bathroom door before unceremoniously ducking into a room at the end of the hall.

It’s someone’s bedroom; Robbe isn’t sure whose, but it’s empty at the very least. He steps inside cautiously, letting the door remain ajar behind him. From the looks of the items scattered all over the floor and the bed—dozens of coats, backpacks and purses, a handful of instrument cases—this is the designated place for partygoers to stash their belongings.

Sander is now on his knees, rummaging under the bed. He tugs out a large green duffel bag, unzipping it in one fluid motion and producing a sizeable glass bottle.

“As requested,” Sander holds it out to Robbe. It’s whiskey, of course, the seal still unbroken.

“You’re serious?” The bottle looks too expensive, too out of place at this random high school party. Kind of like Sander, who seems like he belongs on a fashion runway in some famous designer’s clothing. Not here, not in this bedroom, and not talking to Robbe, of all people. He’s amazed that Sander even noticed him in the first place.

“Dead serious.” Sander’s gaze is steady, heavy with something Robbe can’t name, but whatever it is makes him reach out for the whiskey, fingers brushing against Sander’s like this is some ridiculous romcom, and he takes a swig straight from the bottle.

“Fuck, that’s smooth.” The heat of it makes his eyes water a little, but it’s a good feeling, spreads out from his chest to the tips of his fingers and toes.

He gives the bottle back to Sander, who takes a drink as well. Robbe tries very, very hard not to stare at the way his throat bobs as he swallows, but something about the smirk playing around Sander’s lips makes him think, wildly, that he  _ wants _ Robbe to look at him. That he’s practically daring Robbe not to take his eyes off him.

“You’re here alone?” Sander asks, in a tone that can only be classified as flirtatious. Robbe is thankful for the extra alcohol now in his system that he can blame his reddening cheeks on.

“I mean, I came here with my friends,” he says truthfully.

“But you’re not  _ with _ anyone?” Sander presses.

“No. I’m not.”

“I’m asking because,” Sander takes a step closer, “I have something in mind that’s even better than whiskey.”

“Better than this?” Robbe gestures at the bottle in Sander’s grasp. “Now that I’d like to see.”

Sander is so close now that Robbe can make out the flecks of gold and hazel in those intense green eyes. He swallows thickly.

Just as he’s sure that Sander is about to close the gap between their lips, someone barges through the open door and Robbe, abruptly remembering that he’s  _ at a party _ with fifty million other people, flinches away from the other boy so quickly he almost crashes into the newcomer behind him.

It’s Aaron, who looks momentarily confused at Robbe being in here with some guy he doesn’t recognize, but he blurts out frantically, “The police are here and they’re checking IDs, so we gotta get the fuck out of here!” He’s gone again before the words have fully sunk in.

“Shit.” Robbe pats his pockets to make sure he has his keys, then glances at Sander. “Are you eighteen?”

Sander nods. “I do have a quick getaway, though. But we have to hurry.” He stuffs the whiskey back into his bag, then pulls two black face masks out of a side pocket, tossing one of them to Robbe, who catches it reflexively. Sander puts on the other mask and tugs the hood of his jacket up to cover his hair, the movements swift and practiced like he’s done them a thousand times, then zips the bag shut and slings it onto his shoulder. “Go through the garage, I’ll meet you outside. And make sure the police don’t see your face.”

There’s no time for Robbe to second-guess Sander’s intentions, and he wants so badly to trust him that he’s already halfway down the stairs by the time it registers in his brain what he’s doing.

_ I must be crazy _ , Robbe thinks to himself as he hooks the mask onto his ears with one hand, turning his phone light on with the other so he doesn’t fall on his face in the pitch black garage, picking his way carefully through the clutter. He fumbles with the sliding lock on the outer door and slips outside, lingering in the shadows to check that the coast is clear.

A motorcycle comes tearing around the corner, screeching to a halt next to a car parked in front of the house. Robbe’s mouth drops open. There’s Sander, clad in a heavy black leather jacket and dark blue helmet, sitting astride his motorbike like a knight upon his steed, his bag at his feet.

“Come on!” Sander waves an arm at him. Robbe darts across the grass, scrambling onto the back of the seat, his arms instinctively going around Sander’s waist.

“Hold on tight,” Sander warns, and then they’re off, the engine roaring beneath them like a wild beast as Sander gathers speed, swerving expertly through the streets. He races through a yellow light as it turns red and lets out a triumphant whoop, a sound that sends a thrill down Robbe’s spine and makes him clench his knees more tightly against the seat, needing the added pressure on his skin as confirmation that this is real, reassurance that he didn’t pass out in the bathtub and fall into some wacky, out-of-body fever dream.

They slow to a stop at the next intersection, and Sander actually leans back  _ into  _ Robbe’s arms, the unexpected intimacy of it shocking Robbe so much that it takes him a moment to realize, from the vibrations of Sander’s back against his chest, that Sander is  _ laughing _ , the noise muffled behind his mask, but unmistakable all the same.

The light turns green and Sander hits the gas once more. Robbe’s heart is pounding like a drum, blood rushing in his ears. For the first time all night his mind is free of worry; all of his doubts have been whisked away by the wind rushing past them.

“I’m the king of the fucking world!” Sander yells and whoops again and this time, Robbe, caught up in Sander’s euphoria, joins in so that their shouts mingle together in the chilly October air as they race through the night, flying at such breakneck speeds that Robbe is convinced they could outrun anything: fear, fate, even death itself.

He has never felt more invincible.

Sander takes them to a deserted parking lot in front of a building with several steel roller doors, killing the engine and flipping the kickstand down. He removes his helmet and tucks it into his bag.

“Where the fuck are we?” Robbe doesn’t want to relinquish his hold on Sander quite yet. So he doesn’t let go completely, letting his arms hang loosely around Sander’s frame.

Sander adjusts himself in his seat so he’s able to turn and look at Robbe. He tugs his mask down to reveal the huge grin on his face. “It’s a surprise.”

“Is this why you asked if I was with someone?”

“It’s one reason, yeah.” Sander shrugs, leaning in to unhook Robbe’s mask, fingers lingering at his jaw for rather longer than necessary. Robbe can hardly breathe.

Sander stows both masks back in the same pocket they came from, and retrieves a camera from the bag, looping the strap around his neck.

“Come on.”

They get off the bike, Robbe almost afraid for a moment that his wobbly knees will betray him. Sander reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, this time pulling out a pair of white face masks, not made of soft cloth like the other ones, but instead rigid and industrial.

“What’s the plan?” Robbe takes the mask Sander gives him but doesn’t put it on. Sander chuckles, that mischievous gleam now back in his eye.

“You’ll see. Come.”

He puts on his mask. Robbe does the same. Sander takes him by the hand then, and guides him toward one of the steel doors, rapping on it five times in a deliberate pattern: one knock and a pause, then twice in quick succession, then two slow knocks.

The door rolls up just enough for them to duck beneath the edge of it and into what looks like a warehouse. The person who let them in, also wearing a white mask, greets Sander with a two-step handshake and a clap on the back, before nodding at Robbe, who is almost too apprehensive to nod back.

“Sander, what are we doing here?” He’s pretty sure that whatever they’re getting into is something illegal. But he’s helpless for the way Sander’s hand is still curled protectively around his, so he has no choice but to follow as Sander pulls him forward with the kind of confidence Robbe has only ever dreamt about.

They approach a line of garbage trucks parked in their resting locations for the night. A group of people, chattering in hushed voices, all with their faces concealed and heads covered, are gathered around one truck, which has a rolling ladder set up in front of it. There’s a quiet, nervous excitement in the atmosphere around them; Robbe can feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

A girl with dark hair cut in a neat fringe, wearing a jacket over a pretty red dress hands spray cans to both of them. Robbe stares incredulously at Sander. “Seriously?”

“Better than whiskey, I swear.” Sander tilts his head, eyes twinkling over his mask as he crosses his heart, and Robbe could have died at how cute it was. He’s disarmed enough to let Sander drag him around the side of the truck, away from the rest of the group. 

Sander pulls the mask away from his face. “Pretty cool, right?”

His expression is so hopeful that Robbe has to surrender to him, just from the sheer need to see that diamond-bright smile for as long as possible. He can’t find the words to fit the whirlwind of emotions traveling through his mind, but it doesn’t matter because Sander is suddenly close again, even closer than he had been when they were still in that bedroom.

Like he’d done earlier, Sander unhooks Robbe’s mask, letting it hang off his wrist alongside his own. By the light of the moon, he can see in Sander’s gaze something like exhilaration, like tenderness, like reckless desire. 

“This is the other reason,” he whispers softly, and then his lips press against the line of Robbe’s jaw, drawing back as quickly as he’d leaned in, more a test than anything else.

Robbe’s eyes had closed instinctively when he felt the warmth of Sander’s mouth on his skin, and it takes a second for him to reopen them as he feels Sander move back. He looks bashful now, somehow, when minutes ago he’d been cool-headed and self-assured, the picture of brazen certainty poised for rebellion.

Robbe finds the nerve to surge forward, gripping Sander’s face to bring him in for a real kiss. He’s spent the last hour wanting desperately to know what that mouth tastes like, and from the way Sander licks against the seam of Robbe’s lips, he’s wanted the very same thing.

So, in a way he’s never let anyone else in, he lets Sander in.

Making out with a boy, Robbe decides, far surpasses all the times he’s ever tried making out with a girl and tricking himself into enjoying it. With Sander there’s no need for pretending, and no room for it anyhow.

Sander is the unholy heat and raw color of a wildfire, the edges of him wickedly red, impulsive and downright irresistible. His fingers twist easily into Robbe’s hair, and when his teeth sink into Robbe’s lower lip, it’s like a dam has burst, quenching a thirst within Robbe he wasn’t even aware of before.

Robbe kisses him like he’ll never feel this kind of bliss again, like the second they break apart, the world will shatter into oblivion. Sander is thunder and lightning and fireworks and stardust, a million galaxies racing towards the brink of the undiscovered, into the uncharted darkness, where no one goes because no one knows what lies where no light has yet traveled.

Robbe has never been so irrevocably recognized that now he feels like he could go anywhere, he could do anything—break into a building and spray-paint a garbage truck, for starters—as long as he has Sander.

“God, you are…” Sander seems just as lost for words as he is breathless, panting for air like he’s just finished a marathon.

“Better than whiskey?” Robbe can’t help but grin.

“Undeniably superior,” Sander agrees, leaning in for another scorching kiss. Robbe has to concede on this point, though he’s certainly not complaining that he can still taste it on Sander’s tongue. His lips feel bruised in the best possible way, and he returns the favor rather adventurously, sucking a dark purple hickey onto Sander’s collarbone. Marking his territory, as one does.

As far as Robbe is concerned, Sander, in all his supernova glory, shines bright enough to illuminate every corner of the world, but by some impossible stroke of fate he’d ended up right here in Robbe’s arms. His very own shooting star, though he can’t imagine he’ll have much to wish for moving forward.

They rest their foreheads together, eyes closed, lost for a moment in the safety of a mutual silence. Then, with some reluctance, Sander returns Robbe’s mask to him, though not without stealing one last kiss.

Masks in place once more, both of them disguised from everyone except each other, they climb the ladder, Sander leading Robbe by the hand again. This time, there’s no hesitation on Robbe’s part. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he’d follow Sander to the ends of the earth, to the very edge of the universe. It’s terrifying, honestly, the way he’s already given his heart away to this boy, but he can’t help but think, as Sander beams down at him, that he’s gotten a pretty good bargain.

A heart for a heart, after all, seems to be a fair trade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [reblog this chapter on tumblr here!](https://navollidiot.tumblr.com/post/190180691349/robbe-x-sander-fic-ch-12-ive-never-been-in)


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